


Of Flame, And Glass, And Sand

by Fionavar



Category: Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Family, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:49:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/pseuds/Fionavar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sand's life is about to take a rather unexpected turn. He isn't sure he likes that idea much. Original Campaign compliant, slightly twisted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enough.

Sand had been squinting over the experimental spellbook of Belannen for the better part of day, and a headache was starting to form. His eyes had been protesting for hours, and not even the strongest of his potions was soothing them anymore. Which meant it was time to put Balennen's puzzles aside for a time, and... well, his alchemy bench was well-stocked and required no attention currently; brewing would not help either with the on-coming headache or his strained eyes, and neither would finding something to read. That left very few options, most of them unattractive; he sighed as the decision presented itself. Another evening's meal taken at the Sunken Flagon, then, among the unpleasant smells of bad ale and unwashed innkeeper. At least sniping at Duncan would take the edge off his frustration with Balennen's grimoire.

His shop locked and warded behind him, Sand paused and sniffed the air. Not something many would willingly do in the Docks, but between his sharp nose and sharper brain, the scents were noted, catalogued and conclusions drawn almost instantaneously. Greycloak patrols about. The sharp tang of blood, mingled with a mangy dog. A ship docked, not long ago.

His nose wrinkled in distaste. Quite strong, now, the mingled scents of a group that had passed along the streets a short while ago. Went into the Sunken Flagon, it would seem. A sweaty male dwarf. Female, trees and the bitterness of the Mere of Dead Men. Female, an unpleasant whiff of brimstone.

Female, pinesmoke and jasmine. No. Not that scent. Surely he was fooling himself.

Sand sniffed again, more deeply, trying to keep calm. Pinesmoke and jasmine, with faint overlays of the sea, and of the Mere. The sea-smell didn't go deep, and the Harbourman influence was new, but the core of it – of her – was as familiar, as impossible to mistake as his own scent. His hands started to shake, until he realised and steadied them; an uncharacteristically warm smile, tentative and tender, appeared on his face. She came back, he thought, and fought down the urge to do something stupid. Sweet Mother Mystra, just one hint of her scent, and already he was thinking – no, be honest, feeling - like an adolescent. He wiped the smile off his face, and started running over possible opening lines – the bard had always appreciated his wit, and would surely prefer something cool and scathing to the incoherent, joyful words that were all that immediately sprang to mind.

Sand ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and sauntered over to the Sunken Flagon, hands tucked nonchalantly in the pockets of his robes. He pushed open the door, idly noted the dwarf, the druid, the tiefling – that would match the scents on the street - and then he saw her, and all his carefully-planned words were knocked out of his head again.

A slight woman in caster's robes stood talking to Duncan, her back to the door. A wealth of unruly brown hair spilled down her back, its top layers bleached to gold. Sand knew that hair; he could feel, stronger than memory, its weight and silk in his hands, the scent of pinesmoke and jasmine trapped in its strands. He heard her voice, losing the words in the sheer pleasure of its sound, just the same, low and sweet. He took a step forward, and then Duncan said her name.

Esmerelle.

Esmerelle, Sand repeated silently. You came back.

"... don't pay that eel Sand any coin in advance," Duncan said. Not likely to get a better opportunity for an entrance than that.

"Ah... it seems I have arrived just in time to deflect the usual barrage of slander from the local innkeeper," Sand said, permitting a smirk to crease his mouth. She hadn't turned around, but then, she wouldn't have. That would hardly have been playing the game.

"Sand," Duncan said flatly.

"Yes, it is good to see you're still sober enough to recognise me, Duncan – past the stale beer, vinegar, faint sweat, failed aspirations, unwashed tunic... I thought perhaps you'd already had one tankard too many for the day." He crossed the floor. She still hadn't moved, but the scent of her thickened his throat and brought the next words out a little awkwardly. Her hair hung around her face like a curtain as he came to her side. "Your guest... has a faint Harbourman scent about her. I thought Duncan was keeping company too good for him," he said to her. "I see I was right."

She chuckled – and how familiar was that sound? – and pushed her hair off her face, turning to smile at him.

And she wasn't Esmerelle.

No denying the power of the resemblance. The woman looked so much like Esmerelle, when he'd first met her – the hair, the voice, the scent – but even as his eyes searched her face, and the pit of his stomach lurched with such disappointment that he felt physically sick, there was no way of fooling himself that it was her. Her features were a little sharper than Esmerelle's heart-shaped face, and instead of the warm, roguish brown eyes he remembered so well, the stranger's eyes were a pale blue. She regarded him with amusement and curiosity – the expression even reminded him of Esmerelle – and then he realised the silence had stretched out far too long.

Well, at least he retained enough self-control to cloak his emotions. "I heard my name mentioned... and, oddly enough, almost in a tone that suggested I could help."

"This here's kin," Duncan said.

Sand raised his eyebrows, and looked at the woman again, noting this time the strong sense of arcane power that radiated from her, the small bat that clung to the front of her robes, and saw not only her likeness to Esmerelle, but her distinct lack of any to Duncan. He said as much.

"No, you wouldn't," she said. "Duncan is my foster-father's half-brother."

Sand took a moment to disentangle the genealogy. "Ah, I see. Kin, but not blood-kin, if I may speak loosely."

"You may indeed," the woman said, and both tone and wording were exactly those Esmerelle would have chosen. In addition to the deep shock of disappointment, the pending headache chose that moment to descend on him.

He was never quite sure, afterwards, how he'd gotten through the conversation that followed. More trading of insults with Duncan – well, that part he could have done that in his sleep – an attempted scrying on the two shards of silver and their violent reaction, the discussion on how the girl could get into Blacklake to see Aldanon by joining the Watch or Moire's thugs – she didn't look too happy at either prospect – and finally, an excuse to make a graceful exit.

"I'm certain you can find your own way into trouble from here. I shall return to my lonely merchant existence," Sand said, and could have cursed. To his own ears, that had sounded entirely too bitter. Duncan hadn't picked up on it – well, he wouldn't expect it of the worthless drunk – but the girl was looking at him again, a slight query in her eyes. He hastened to soften it. "Should you have need of my expertise, simply ask, my dear..."

"Angharad," she supplied, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears. Her small, delicately- pointed ears.

He was frozen for a moment. "Angharad," he nodded, finally. "Duncan," and left the Flagon.

Back in the safety of his shop – headache, nausea, heartache and all – Sand blindly swallowed down the few remaining potions he had in stock that would ameliorate the first two problems, and sat down in front of the fire to wallow in the third.

Gods, he thought he'd buried it, finally got the better of it and managed to forget her. Instead, all it took was a slip of a half-elf girl who smelt of pine wood burnt under the stars, and of jasmine, to make him so pathetically willing to believe she'd come back to him. Nearly twenty-four years since he'd last seen her face – a mere handful of time, really – but it hadn't felt that way. He lost himself in memories...

_A warm night, the moonlight drifting down through the trees of the Duskwood. A laughing discussion, not the first they've had. "No, no, you're confusing your pantheons again. Angharradh was the one who..._

_"Angharradh," she said, rolling the name in her mouth. "That's got a good ring to it."_

_"I'm sure the goddess is ecstatic that a human bard approves of the sound of her name. I shall so inform her next time I pray to her, and then she will surely shower me with blessings."_

_She gave him a sideways look. "Just what sort of blessings does this goddess provide?"_

_Not her usual sort of question, and not her usual sort of look, either. "Ah, well, if I remember correctly –" and then his words were lost against her lips, and his thoughts drowned in pinesmoke and jasmine. After a time, they pulled apart from each other._

_"I think I'll stick with Sune," the bard said, and then..._

... and then his brain woke up (he had always had a low tolerance for self pity) and started putting pieces together. He could practically hear the solid clicking of fact placed on fact, forming a solid chain of reasoning. Each step could have been a coincidence, but not when they were placed together.

First: The girl was so exactly like Esmerelle, there had to be a blood link there.

Second: Duncan had used that name when talking to her. Either he or the girl knew Esmerelle. Easy to discreetly pump Duncan for information, if you waited until he was drunk enough to talk and forget what he had been saying, but not too drunk to pass out. One-third through a tankard should do it.

Third: The girl was evidently a half-elf, or to use a more relevant phrasing in this context, half-human.

Fourth: Her name was Angharad. An uncommon name, particularly borne by one not of full elven blood.

First conclusion: On balance, it seemed likely that the half-elf was Esmerelle's daughter.

He would have liked to stop there and adjust to that, but he was drawn onward by a grouping of other facts.

Fifth: The girl had power. Magic could be wild talent, but it was more often than not inherited.

Sixth: The girl was a half-human, or to use a more relevant phrasing in this context, half-elf.

Seventh: If Sand was any judge of the maturation rate of half-elves, she was about twenty-three years old.

Eighth: Her eyes were pale blue, and, now he thought about it, really rather familiar.

Second conclusion: On balance, it seemed likely that the half-elf was _his_ daughter.

The conclusion arrived in his head, and he mentally stared at it for a while.

No. Aberration of logic. Unacceptable conclusion. Redo from start.

Better yet, wait for more information, and then rethink it.

Sand pinched the bridge of his nose, commanded his brain to stop thinking – which signally failed, as usual – and distracted himself with Balennen's spellbook.

Or tried to.


	2. Chapter 2

Another week of brewing and selling potions lumbered past, and Sand stepped out of his shop with the fullest intention of interrogating Duncan thoroughly. There was one particular potion he'd brewed especially for that purpose; it had taken a little more time than he'd remembered. A useful piece of alchemy - let no one say that he hadn't picked up some very interesting things in the Hosttower – combination of truth serum, sleeping potion and an amnesia draught... and shouldn't be too hard to slip into Duncan's drink.

He sniffed delicately – and nearly choked on burning wood and thatch. He spluttered, coughed, and so missed the sight of an angry Duncan chasing a red-headed human girl out of the Flagon, and said girl being cornered by a couple of enraged students from the Academy. His poor, abused nasal passages even failed to register the waft of jasmine. In short, he was entirely unprepared to look up and see Angharad, sporting the distinctive cape of the City Watch and accompanied by her motley group, calmly laying down the law to all of them. His first reaction was to hide the powder in his sleeve.

"I don't care who did what to whom, but if you keep doing it outside my uncle's tavern, you _will_ regret it. You see, first I'll let my demon-spawn friend steal your purses and valuables – assuming you haven't already, Neeshka," the tiefling smiled, revealing slightly-pointed teeth. "Then the blood-thirsty dwarf will hack you off at the knees –" the dwarf grinned, his axe shining in a rather _pointed_ manner, " while the druid roots you to the spot," the skinny elf looked a little less pleased than the other two. "And then _I_ will arrest whatever's left."

Sand wasn't sure whether he admired or was appalled at his d- no, hypothesis unproven, _the girl's_ handling of the situation. Either way, it was effective. The Academy students looked at each other, looked at Angharad and her followers, and left without a word. The red-head pushed her hair off her forehead, and sneered at them.

"I didn't need your help. Those _wizards_ had it coming."

Well, if it wasn't a snotty little sorceress. Angharad clearly felt something similar, judging from the way she wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't helping you," she pointed out. "I was ensuring you didn't burn my uncle's tavern down. Now, why don't you toddle back to the Academy?"

"I'm not a part of the Academy any more – I quit. Sort of. After burning down their stable. I don't need to study there anyway – I already know how to do magic. I can summon more power from my thumb than those noble-born mages can with a day's worth of concentration." Even overhearing the arrogant speech was making Sand's fingers itch to cast Disintegrate. Unfortunately it wasn't showing any signs of abating. "They're always staring into books and tomes, trying to categorize magic. What a waste of time. You either understand it or you don't. I do, they don't. You're a sorceress yourself, you understand that."

Sand had rather assumed that the half-elf was a wizard. He felt the headache he'd chased off yesterday trying to return, particularly when the girl didn't deny it.

"It's not about all power," Angharad said wearily. "Concentration, finesse – there really are more effective ways to skin a cat than setting it alight. You don't have to be a wizard to understand that."

"You sound just like those cantrip-casting Academy milksops," the human girl spat.

"Then maybe you should have listened to them. Go _away_."

"Oh, no, lass," Duncan interjected. "She'll be paying me for damaging my inn, tarnishing my reputation," – the little of it still tarnishable, thought Sand – "my lost business, and for putting me and my kin in danger like that."

"No," the red-head very nearly stamped her foot. "I don't have any money, and I'm not working for either of you. Ever."

"Look, Uncle, I don't want to see her face ever again. I'm making good wages with the Watch, I can help you repair the Flagon –"

Duncan's face set like stone. "No, lass. She owes us, and I'm not afraid to collect. If you don't want to take her along with you, that's fine. I don't blame you." He handed the sorceress a greasy dishcloth. "Get inside, girl, and start wiping tables."

Duncan's measly intelligence had always come off second-best to his stubbornness, Sand reflected. Taking the pyromaniac sorceress who'd made a good attempt to burn down his inn and turning her into a tavern wench could not possibly end well – except for Sand, who could possibly extort a lot of gold from Duncan in exchange for setting up a Vanteen's Siphon spell on the inn. Worth a thought.

On the other hand, he could hardly spike Duncan's tankard and pump him for information on his 'niece' and Esmerelle if the 'niece' in question was hanging about the tavern.

And he was starting to feel rather absurd, lurking about in the street.

"Coming in, lass?" Duncan asked, and Angharad shook her head.

"Got another four hours on duty, I'm afraid," she said, and surprised Duncan with a quick, hard hug. "But I'll drop by after that."

Sand eased the potion out of his sleeve as the girl and her entourage disappeared around the corner. Duncan caught sight of him.

"Sand, you charlatan! How long have you been standing there? Why weren't you helping?"

"Your kin seemed to have it all well in hand," he replied. "I would not presume to interfere with the workings of the City Watch."

Duncan just snorted and turned into the Flagon, no doubt to drown whatever mediocre sorrows he currently imagined himself to be suffering.

Sand could help him with that.

The wizard stood a moment in the doorway, letting his sinuses adjust to the characteristic reek of the Sunken Flagon (and the charred timber and thatch), picking up the less-powerful and transient scents.

Male, human, old grease, stale beer. Sal.

Female, human, ashes and burnt hair. The sorceress.

Male, human, unwashed skin and mangy wolf. That scruffy ranger who seemed to spend all his time here.

Male, half-elf, vinegar, faint sweat. Not quite as much ale as usual. Duncan. Already sitting at a table in the corner, already nursing a tankard. How he managed to drink the foul stuff was beyond Sand; even the smell was distasteful. He sat down opposite Duncan anyway.

"Oh, would you look at that?"Sand drawled, pointing over Duncan's shoulder. "I think your little sorceress is about to set fire to Sal." He couldn't have asked for a better diversion; Duncan half-twisted out of his seat to catch sight of Sal backing away from a chanting Qara, and opened his mouth to bellow at her - Sand leant forward, and emptied the vial into Duncan's tankard – Sal tipped a pitcher of water over Qara's head – something about all this caught the attention of the scruffy ranger by the fireplace, who shifted his weight and let the front legs of his chair hit the ground with a bang – and Sand sat back, exuding nonchalance. It was a skill he'd worked hard to perfect over the centuries. Qara spluttered, Sal shrugged, Duncan turned back to his drink, and the ranger... watched from his corner.

The flurry of drama over, Duncan practically poured the drugged ale down his throat – a sight Sand considered of little amusement value, apart from the slight satisfaction afforded by knowing that the innkeeper was now under his power. He asked a couple of test questions, to confirm that the potion had taken effect. Although the innkeeper expressed mild surprise at the questions, he nevertheless confirmed that his name was Duncan Farlong, his hair was brown, and that this inn was called the Sunken Flagon. And then Sand began the questioning.

"How do you know Esmerelle?"

"She and my half-brother Daeghun were part of the same adventuring company," Duncan said, and looked surprised as the words came freely from his mouth. "I travelled with them once or twice. And when Daeghun married and settled in West Harbour, I visited him every now and then. Sometimes I ran into Esmerelle there."

That was clear enough. A strange coincidence, that Sand had set up shop near a man who knew Esmerelle, and the name had never cropped up between them. Well, not so odd, really; when she had left, he had hardly gone about howling her name to the moon like a mad dog. And he'd gone out of his way not to listen to any of Duncan's ale-soaked reminiscences of his younger days... wait. Duncan had kept talking. "Repeat that last bit," he ordered the half-elf.

"Saw a lot more of her when she returned from one of her adventures pregnant and settled down with Daeghun and Shayla."

"When was this?"

Duncan named an approximate date.

"And when was the child – Angharad – born?" Well, that was merely his conclusion, but as Duncan didn't protest it...

The innkeeper scratched his head, before dredging up an answer.

Well. That about settled it, then. The gestation periods of half-elves were a little strange, as it varied depending on which race the mother was and how strongly the child took after either race, but unless Esmerelle had been with someone else during their time together – and even if that had been likely, he would have scented another man on her skin – then Angharad –

Then he –

_Oh, gods._

What, by all the Nine Hells, was he supposed to do about that?


	3. Chapter 3

Sand realised he was sitting there staring at Duncan like a fool, and tried to gather his wits. The shock of discovering himself possessed of a near-adult daughter had scattered them rather thoroughly, but there was, still, one very important question to ask before the potion sent Duncan to sleep –

"Where is Esmerelle?" He hardly dared speculate. If she had forgotten him – if she'd gone off wandering again – or if she _hadn't_ -

"She is dead."

The part of his mind that never stopped thinking swiftly calculated the value of twenty years in an average human lifespan. No, it wasn't that much time, even for a human, which meant illness or injury -

The rest had simply frozen. Impossible to imagine Esmerelle _dead_. Not she, so bright, so vivid...

"What happened to her?" he managed to ask.

Angharad's birth had not been an easy one, Duncan told him, and even a month after it, Esmerelle had still been too weak to travel. Daeghun's wife, Shayla, was the closest thing to a healer the village had at that time, and she'd been keeping an eye on them. Duncan had come to visit-

\- the night West Harbor was attacked by the King of Shadows.

"Demons everywhere... you can't imagine it, Sand. Daeghun, he always keeps his head, he was helping everyone to get out of the village, and into hiding in the Mere. We didn't know..." the innkeeper stopped for a moment and tried to clear his throat. "Shayla, she'd gone back into the village to try and get Esmerelle and her daughter out."

"And?" Sand asked in nearly a whisper, afraid he already knew the answer, hoping somehow he was wrong.

Duncan shook his head. "And they were barely out of the house. There was some sort of explosion from the thick of the battle, and those damnable shards of silver went flying... I found them, Sand! Shayla dead, the child clasped in Esmerelle's bosom, covered in her blood... There was so much blood that night. Another of those shards. Cut right through her and embedded itself in Angharad's chest. Poor girl, she doesn-"

And in the midst of the word, Duncan's head fell forward and he emitted a horrible snore. That was the second stage of the potion taking effect; when he woke, he wouldn't remember anything of the past half hour, and would probably be suffering from a dreadful headache to boot.

Not so different from any other evening in his life, then.

While the rest of Sand remained paralysed (Esmerelle was dead. Had died years ago), that one persistent knot of synapses was putting pieces together: no wonder the shards had resonated in Angharad's possession, when there was one sealed in her flesh. And 'poor girl, she doesn't'? Does not what? It could have been something related to what Duncan had been saying, or something entirely different...

He pushed back his chair. "Sal, it seems your esteemed employer has reached his limit for the evening. I presume you have sufficient stock of my ale purgative remaining to handle matters from here?"

The human nodded and wished him a good night.

 _Wait_... even with all the disquieting revelations of the night, all the things he needed to think about and pull into perspective, there was a part of his brain that never stopped thinking, and there were certain, hard-acquired instincts that never slept. And they were screaming at him now: someone was watching him, and not in a harmless way. He turned slightly, and met the tawny eyes of the ranger in the corner.

Their expression was one he had seen many times among the Arcane Brotherhood. It meant: _I know something you did not intend me to learn. Something that gives me power over you. When the time is right, I_ will _use that knowledge._

Sometimes it was pure bluff. In this case? Sand hurriedly reviewed all that Duncan or himself had said... inconclusive, and the human would have needed ears like an elf to hear their conversation at all. Even if the ranger had heard everything and somehow managed to leap to the correct explanation, there was only one correct response, and Sand returned it; a look almost completely blank and neutral, save for the slightest touch of superiority. He was quite practiced with it by now. It meant: _Your imaginings do not interest or concern me, unless you are so unwise to attempt to use whatever leverage you believe you hold over me, in which case I will be highly amused. And you will regret it._

He turned and left the tavern. The ranger's deep chuckle followed him.

Nearly a tenday later, and he still wasn't sure to do about the whole situation. He had had time to begin to adjust, and although he did not think he would ever be completely at ease with it, the idea of Esmerelle having birthed his daughter no longer paralysed him. There was – perhaps would always be – a deep grief in his heart for her death; but, realistically, he was an elf, and she had been a human, and he would always have outlived her by centuries. And perhaps she would have come back and brought their child with her – if she had not been killed before she'd gotten the chance.

He smiled, ever so slightly, at that idea; he could just see Esmerelle breezing back into his shop and handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle, probably saying "Careful, don't drop her. I'll be back in a year."

Well. That would never be, and there was no use dwelling on it. Here and now, he had a daughter, whose birth he had never suspected and who knew next to nothing of him. It would be easy to simply ignore the fact and let her drift out of his life the way she'd drifted in, but – no. He'd let Esmerelle go, as she'd wanted, and look at how that had turned out. If he'd persuaded her to stay – if he'd gone with her – no. He was not going to go down that path now. The point was that he wished to at least know his daughter.

'Lonely merchant existence' or no, it was difficult to imagine someone else cluttering around his little shop. And a sorceress of all things! Even if she seemed to have her head more firmly screwed in place than others of that calling. He shook his head, absently scratching Jaral under the chin; his familiar purred. Besides, he had no idea how she'd react to the sudden intrusion of a self-proclaimed father in her life. "Hello, you've only met me once before, and I didn't know of your existence until a few tendays ago, but it seems I am your father" – oh, yes, that was a promising scenario.

For all he knew, she was devoted to the elf who'd raised her - which would be a perfectly natural response – and would resent any would-be supplanter. On the other hand –

\- there was someone at the door. He identified the scent of pinesmoke and jasmine without ever consciously noticing it, and jumped to his feet – Jaral yowled his protest at being so unceremoniously dumped out of Sand's lap – and smoothed out his hair and his robes.

Angharad – his _daughter_ – entered his shop. The first things he saw were that she was smiling, and that there was a bat tangled in her hair. It saved him from trying to decide between the multitude of awkward greetings that sprang to mind.

"An intriguing choice of hair ornament," he said.

She reached up to free the little creature. "Ah, Coda's much more than that." She very gently scratched the fur between the bat's large ears. It squeaked in response, a sound just on the highest edge of his extremely sensitive hearing. He winced slightly. "She's done far more to keep my skin intact and my blood inside it than all of my companions put together."

"An impressive feat indeed." It sounded ridiculous, even if her companions were entirely useless, but judging by the slyness of her smile, there was something he was missing... "I can hardly say the same for my familiar; all Jaral does is protect my potion ingredients from mice. Might I enquire how one so small earned such a high accolade?"

Her smile twisted upward another fraction. "It's clear you are unacquainted with the many insects of the Mere."

"I treasure my ignorance on the subject." Ah, this banter was so familiar – and that was the strangest part.

"And so you should; I could hardly have said the same before I found Coda. The Mere has more than its fair share of blood-sucking bugs, all of which used to end up in my room at nights for the free half-elf buffet. Coda finds them delicious."

He chuckled. "And so you occupy a lower place on the food chain than your own familiar. But you surely did not enter my shop simply to discuss the ecology of Merdelain. How may I be of assistance?"

"The City Watch is sending me out to Old Owl Well," Angharad said. She did not look happy about it.

Sand wasn't either. "Dear girl-" the endearment slipped out without him even noticing – "you've been in the Watch for less than a moon."

"I still seem to be the only competent they have, and apparently they've misplaced the Waterdhavian ambassador." She shrugged one shoulder, the bat still cupped in her hand. "Honestly, I'd tell them to go enter a staring contest with a basilisk, but I still need to get into Blacklake."

Ah. Of course she needed the sage; although the attack on her home village was nothing to dismiss lightly, she had one of those shards embedded in her chest. Of course she wanted answers.

"I've a few magic trinkets I picked up on the way here; I was hoping to trade for something a bit more useful..."

They traded and they talked. Her companions were off about their own business; the druid had gone to check something she called the Skymirror, the dwarf was probably brawling in a tavern, and if the tiefling wasn't stealing something, Angharad would apparently be very surprised. He discovered that she was surprisingly well-read on a number of subjects, and that he enjoyed talking with her.

He made a remark to that effect, and that he would not have expected it of a sorceress.

"Sweet Mother Mystra," she groaned. "Don't tell me you're one of _those_."

He raised an eyebrow.

She recited in a sing-song voice: "Sorcerers are impulsive, out-of-control, power-hungry spell-slingers who don't understand what they're doing. Everything that wizards, who actually master their magic and learn it properly, are not."

"It is the impression most sorcerers seem to go out of their way to give. Like that foolish girl Qara."

"Don't you dare judge me by her," Angharad said, but without heat. "Look, I was taught by a wizard, and my best friend Amie was one."

"Was?" he asked.

She shook her head. "She was the fiery and impulsive one. When West Harbour was attacked, she threw herself into a mage-duel, despite Master Tarmas warning us clear. And she died because of it."

"I'm sorry," Sand offered the feeble words.

Angharad nodded slightly, and took a deep breath. "Anyway, that wasn't the point. Yes, I am a sorceress. I have an instinctive grasp of magic and I wield it with greater ease than you ever will. But-" she held up a hand to silence the protest Sand would have made – "I know that I am severely limited, as you are not. _You can learn_. I can cast from a scroll, but however many times I read the same spell that way, I'll never be able to cast it without the scroll. I will never be able to learn spells that way, as you can. I simply do not have the capability. I will never understand magic as thoroughly as you do – and I envy that."

Envy. A strong word. "Well. You are by far the most intelligent sorceress I have ever met. Unfortunately, that is not a very high compliment."

She grinned at him. "Given that sorcerers depend on the strength of their personality and not their intellect to spellcast, I'm not sure it's a compliment at all."

And they went on from there. It was only when they were interrupted by a customer that Sand realised exactly just how much time had passed. Angharad excused herself – and promised to come by when she got back from Old Owl Well.

And Sand got to complete the train of thought she'd derailed – on the other hand, absolutely no reason not to get to know her and simply put the awkward issue of her paternity to one side, to deal with later...


	4. Chapter 4

Sand still wasn't certain if the definition of his daughter's promised 'drop in' actually had room for a four-hour conversation; nevertheless, after Angharad had returned from Old Owl Well, that was exactly what they'd had.

_Angharad greeted him in fluent, confident Elvish. He raised an eyebrow, and responded in the same tongue. "Now I see why your jaunt to Old Owl Well took so long; you stopped to learn civilised speech."_

" _And from whom would I have learned Elvish at Old Owl Well? The orcs? I've spoken both Elvish and Common from the cradle. Haven't had much use for Elvish in the past few years, but I pestered Elanee to refresh me."_

Four hours that he simply hadn't noticed passing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spent so much time with someone intelligent: a peer. It was more than pleasant, it was... oddly gratifying. Certainly he could take no credit for her, beyond the fact he'd obviously contributed good genes – and she seemed to have inherited as much, or more, from her captivating mother.

Nevertheless.

" _So, do tell me of your wild escapades during the past few tendays," Sand said, squinting at the cloudy solution in his beaker. Was any of it salvageable? "I assume they contain daring rescues, epic battles, and a vast amount of mud?"_

" _Such a wonder you never became a bard," Angharad said. "Or an adventurer. Well. There were tales of wild escapades, mostly because we picked up a gnome bard who doesn't need to breathe." She chuckled at his raised eyebrow. "I'm not exaggerating. He introduced himself, and it took three hours. I dozed off in the middle of it. Still, it made a change from listening to Khelgar and Neeshka bickering."_

" _You are still accompanied by this vocal gnome?"_

" _In a sense. I left him over at the Flagon; Duncan's probably bleeding from the ears by now. So much for wild escapades." She frowned briefly. "We did manage two daring rescues. "_

" _Only two? How disappointing."_

" _Technically, it might have been only one," she admitted. "We got an imposter the first time. "And then he tried to kill us. Such gratitude. We didn't do too well on the 'epic battles' front, either."_

" _Mmmm?"_

_She sighed. "Orcs, orcs, orcs, and more orcs. The occasional troll for variety, but mostly orcs. Irritating creatures with no originality or sense of personal hygiene squatting in damp, rotting caves. So we did manage your 'vast amounts of mud.' Oh, and we picked up a paladin."_

" _Between their heavy load of self-righteousness and customary plate armour, I'm surprised you managed."_

_She snorted. "Sand, that was_ **pathetic** _."_

Within a few days of returning from Old Owl Well, she'd got her access into Blacklake and Aldanon. Whether she'd gotten the answers she'd needed from the master of obfustication – or understood them, if she'd received them – Sand still didn't know, and wished he did. Not simply because he was curious about the mystery those shards posed, but – hells. There was a chunk of silver stuck in her chest. That couldn't be healthy.

And the reason he didn't know a thing was that first she'd raced off on another hare-brained mission as soon as she'd left Blacklake. According to the rather garbled version of events Duncan had told him – not forgetting that the one-tankard drunk was exactly what they'd had in mind when they'd coined the phrase 'unreliable witness' – she and her motley crew were trying to race a squad of githyanki to a farmgirl believed to be the last descendant of Ammon Jerro. Well, Duncan had said 'Almond Jello', but that seemed a slightly more reasonable interpretation.

What a deceased court wizard had to do with silver shards, Sand had no idea. It was entirely possible Aldanon had them on some kind of wild-goose chase.

Still, even the sage would probably not have her looking for the great-grandaughter of a Mulhorandi dessert product.

_Elvish was a subtle language; it was possible to tell a great deal about a speaker by their intonation, by their word choices, by a thousand slight cues. Angharad spoke the language with a wild elf influence, which was decidedly interesting._

" _Your foster father, Duncan's brother... he is a wild elf?" he guessed._

" _No," she said, as Jaral, treacherous feline, purred in her lap. "Good guess, though. Daeghun was raised by wild elves, but he's a wood elf. You couldn't pick that from Duncan's colouring?"_

" _Dear girl, wood elves and wild elves share many physical traits. In any case, it is quite difficult to speculate on the sub-race of the elven parent of a half-elf. It is all too easy to be led astray by the human influence." He shrugged, the casual gesture belying how carefully he was considering his next words. "In your case, for example, you possess far too many human points to make more than a vague guess at the heritage of your elven parent - at least, based solely on your appearance."_

" _I'll take your word for it," she said. "I know nothing at all about him; Elanee suggested he was – or is, I suppose, given elven life-spans – probably a moon elf, given that the other sub-races are a little more reclusive."_

_That wasn't really a subject he wished her to pursue currently, given how intelligent she was. "And your mother?"_

" _A human bard named Esmerelle, Duncan said, and apparently I look quite like her. That's all I know, and it's more than Daeghun ever told me."_

_How could she know so little? Sand was no stranger to keeping secrets, and held no particular moral bias against keeping them from the person they most concerned – witness the fact he hadn't informed her of the relationship between them, and had no plans for doing so in the immediate future – nevertheless, this foster-father of hers... Apparently his appalled expression was eloquent._

_She shrugged, with a rueful smile. "You'd have to know Daeghun to understand, but as Rowan said to the archmage Hawk, the child with a stone for a teacher soon learns not to ask questions."_

"' _Tales of the Archipelago', Second Canto," Sand identified the quotation out of habit. "Your foster father is that close-mouthed?"_

" _Actually, he's even worse."_

It was dark now. Sand had been absorbed in his trains of thought: one thoughts of Angharad, another memories of their last conversation, and the third a rather complicated alchemical test – he found the proportion mildly alarming. The fact he'd been so absorbed that he hadn't noticed nightfall, and probably wouldn't have noticed a rampaging half-orc horde smashing all his glassware, suggested that it was high time for a break.

He paused outside his shop to raise his wards, and was halfway across the street before he realised he was headed to the Sunken Flagon. His sensitive nose registered half-a-dozen scents, followed by sensory overload, and then shut down in protest.

Among them had been the old, fading scent of pinesmoke and jasmine.

Sand pushed open the doors of the Flagon and was greeted by the bizarre and somewhat disturbing sight of Duncan Farlong and Sal hauling the charred corpses of githyanki into a pile. The inn – even by its usual standards – was in shambles; not even the most enthusiastic of tavern brawlers did this much damage to the furnishings.

"We're closed!" Duncan barked out, then looked over his shoulder. "Oh, it's you, Sand. Statement goes double."

The wizard paid that exactly as much attention as it deserved – that is to say, absolutely none. He let the door swing shut behind him. The lingering traces of magic made him sneeze. A bard, a druid and two sorceresses had all thrown spells about in the confines of Duncan's squalid inn. No need to ask how those githyanki corpses had gotten so charred; the distinctive touch of that idiot girl Qara could not have been clearer. Angharad, as she'd mentioned once, had a talent for conjuration, and it seemed whatever she'd summoned up – a dire creature of some kind, it appeared – had torn a few of the githyanki to pieces.

"Actually, I was looking for your... kin." No sooner had he registered a slight, suspicious furrow form between Duncan's eyebrows than Sand added, "I finished crafting the amulet she ordered, and I wished to claim the other half of my payment." A complete fabrication, of course.

All clients paid upfront and in full before Sand so much as looked at a reagent.

In any case, Duncan believed it. Wait. Sal and Duncan were cleaning up, and the tavern was otherwise empty. No City Watch, no Many-Starred Cloaks. No sign of that ranger, which came only as a mild surprise – he was hardly the type to volunteer for cleaning duties, even if Sand had never seen the inn without him – but where was Duncan's new dish-girl?

"You seem to have misplaced a sorceress, Duncan. Or two."

Duncan rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and bent to take the legs of another githyanki corpse. A Disintegrate spell shot under his nose and transmuted the corpse into a pile of dust. Duncan straightened. "The damned githyanki attacked the Flagon last night and took the lass. Shandra," he explained after a moment. "Angharad and her friends went after her."

"And when did your pyromaniac table-wiper gain that exalted status?"

"Shortly after she single-handedly turned half the githyanki into charcoal."

"So your niece took her usual entourage, and Qara, and just set off after extra-planars, hoping to stumble across them before they enact whatever plan – presumably unsavoury – they have for the farm-girl? _Now_ I see the family resemblance, Duncan." The girl wasn't that stupid – she carried some of his genes, after all.

"She has a guide," Duncan protested slightly, pushing his hair off his forehead. This part seemed to be worrying him a bit. "One of the gith had a sprig of Duskwood trapped in his boot; Bishop's a native to those parts, and he owes me a debt."

"Duskwood?" That brought back memories, and not all of them were pleasant. "You are referring to the Duskwood that lies over the Luskan border? And, while I am conversing on your level, that is, moronic questions, who is Bishop?" His first guess on the matter involved the absence of the ranger from his customary corner, and he didn't like that at all.

"Bishop's a ranger, likes that corner over there," Duncan waved a hand at a pile of firewood that had once been a chair.

Duncan had sent his niece – Sand's daughter – into Luskan territory with both a pyromaniac sorceress and a human whom Sand instinctively distrusted. This really could not end well. "You sent her into _Luskan_ ," Sand said. "Are you honestly expecting to see her return? If so, I suggest you adjust your expectations."

"It's just over the border, Sand," Duncan answered, but the half-elf did not look nearly as confident as his words suggested. In fact, he looked like the undead servant of a particularly inept necromancer.

"Duskwood is close, true, but how far will your kin chase the githyanki? I can guarantee that _they_ will not have been so monumentally foolish as to construct their lair under _those_ trees. And if she does go anywhere near Luskan? The Arcane Brotherhood is fond of sorcerers, Duncan, and even fonder of bleeding them of their magic. However, Angharad and her merry band have upset more than one Luskan plot. And what the Brotherhood is fondest of is revenge-"

"Sand, I know, I know!" Duncan practically shouted at Sand, and then sighed. "I know."

"You've stated that thrice, and still I doubt it." Sand cast another Disintegrate, the arcane syllables a little louder than they needed to be.

"Shut up and cast, Sand."

"The two actions are mutually exclusive."

"Then just go away, because you're _not_ helping!"

"An intelligent suggestion from the drunken half-elf. The laws of probability are no doubt weeping in a corner." Casting a final Disintegrate, Sand swept to the door. "However, far be it from me to scorn good advice, even from an untrustworthy source."And exit.

Sweet Mother Mystra, take care of her.


	5. Chapter 5

Sand had rather avoided the Flagon since the githyanki attack, and the one time Duncan had come around to his shop – a rare occurrence in any case – he had pretended he wasn't at home by the simple expedient of refusing to answer the door. Childish of him, perhaps.

A double-rap on the door, and the scent of armour polish and perfumed hair oil identified one of the very few who occupied a higher place than Duncan on the list of people Sand did not want to see. Unfortunately, this visitor could not be so easily evaded.

Sand parted his wards. "Come in, Nevalle."

Member of the Neverwinter Nine, Lord Nasher's right hand (and there were all sorts of songs based on various interpretations of that phrase sung in the seedier taverns. Surprisingly, Duncan didn't sink that low) and Sand's personal jailer. Sand addressed the blonde man with all the respect those titles warranted. "What do you want?"

"I see your post at the Docks hasn't improved your temperament, Sand." Sir Nevalle took a chair Sand hadn't offered him, and nearly sat on Jaral, who yowled and spat at the knight. Sand concurred with the sentiment.

"For the most part, the Docks was a step up – fewer thieves and less politics. Unfortunately, it appears that such a fortunate state of affairs could not last. Is there a subject upon which you wish to interrogate me at this juncture, or may I scurry off to the nearest temple to placate Beshaba, since only the Lady of Misfortune could possibly have sponsored your visitation?"

If the barbs of his gibe had scored Nevalle's hide at all, the man wasn't showing it. How depressing. He merely ran a hand through his hair – a mannerism that irritated Sand no end. During an average 'conversation', Nevalle seemed to require reassurance that his hair was still attached to his head at least every five minutes. He had no fewer than four different ways of doing so – each of which had approximately six variants – Sand did the calculations while Nevalle sighed. Assuming he did not repeat himself before he'd finished his repertoire, Nevalle would run through his full range of self-grooming manoeuvres in about two hours.

Sand sincerely hoped the knight wouldn't take that long to get to the point. Admittedly, the elf had better than seven times the human's lifespan, and the patience to match it –

"Something has happened... and we need your talents to set it right."

Well, that wasn't the point – but it was a start. "As eloquent and specific as ever. 'Something' happens every day, Nevalle. Usually several 'somethings'. And it would appear that I am not the only one of us Beshaba has her eye upon, if you are attempting to flatter me."

"It concerns Luskan," Nevalle said.

Sand tensed slightly; in his lap, Jaral echoed the motion. "I'm listening."

Nevalle smoothed an errant lock of hair back into its place. "Ambassador Torio Claven has accused one of Neverwinter's most faithful servants of a heinous crime – the complete razing of the Luskan village of Ember and the slaughter of all its inhabitants." Nevalle paused for a moment, apparently to let the gravity of the charge sink in. Sand hadn't needed the extra processing time; so far, everything the knight had said was in perfect accordance with typical Hosttower tactics, assuming they wanted this _most faithful servant of Neverwinter_ badly enough to destroy one of their own towns, which wouldn't surprise him one iota.

"Intriguing. For once, Nevalle, I believe you've actually brought me something of interest." Sand steepled his fingers and regarded Nevalle over their tips. "Moreover, I can probably trace the next developments for you. The Ambassador is demanding your unfortunate delivered to Luskan."

"To face Low Justice," Nevalle confirmed.

"Such a misnomer. Nothing just about Luskan Low Justice," Sand said. "Well. The village is no doubt destroyed, except perhaps for one eye-witness, currently in Luskan hands."

"Actually, we were fortunate there. Alaine, a merchant, did indeed witness the events at Ember, but she's safe in Port Llast."

"Unlike the Arcane Brotherhood to be so sloppy." Nevalle combed his fingers through the back of his hair, a slight look of doubt on his face. "Don't be naїve. Nothing comes out of Luskan that the Hosttower does not, at the very least, approve. Something on this scale... the Brotherhood's in it right up to their collective noses." Sand held up a hand, just as Nevalle opened his mouth. "That is not the opinion of a paranoid elf who escaped the Hosttower and now sees their hand everywhere. That is a fact, presented to you by one who dwelt among the towers of Luskan for longer than you've been alive, and knows just how the Brotherhood operates."

"Sand, I wasn't arguing."

"See that you don't." Sand ticked the points off on his fingers. "The Luskans destroy Ember, leaving one convenient eye-witness in order to frame your unfortunate servant. Although you may have beaten the Hosttower to said eye-witness, it would be uncharacteristic of them to have made any more serious mistakes – I will therefore assume that the movements, appearance and etcetera of the accused all tally with currently available evidence. You are therefore enlisting me to try and get the accused off the Luskan hook. A worthy challenge, indeed." He looked forward to it.

"One could almost believe you prescient, Sand."

" _Please_ desist your attempts at flattery, Nevalle; you haven't a sufficiently light touch. I am simply familiar enough with the _modus operandi_ of the Arcane Brotherhood to recognise their work. You and your master are also eminently predictable." Sand went on before Nevalle could protest the casual disrespect of Lord Nasher. "If I truly were prescient, or if you presented your information in any logical order, I wouldn't need to be asking this simple question: who am I defending?"

"A loyal member of the City Watch, newly promoted to lieutenant. The sorceress Angharad."

"Angharad? My d-" Sand got himself under control, with an effort, and continued with smooth, well-practised sarcasm, "- _dear_ friend Duncan's niece?"

Mystra be praised, Nevalle was not very quick at reading facial cues. "Yes, that's the one."

"I am hardly surprised she attracted Luskan attention after some of her activities on the Docks," all of which he had dutifully reported to Nevalle, "but this seems... a rather extreme reaction on their part." Angharad. Luskan. Don't panic. Keep thinking. "Nevertheless. After all her good work, the most you can do to protect her is reassign me from spy to lawyer duty?"

"Relations with Luskan are ... tense. Lord Nasher cannot afford to exacerbate that tension by openly shielding her, unless and until she's proven innocent. However, we can do this much to help, Sand – Sir Grayson's already agreed to take her as squire."

"Thus granting her a trial in Neverwinter and sparing her immediate Low Justice. That is seriously the utmost you can do?"

Nevalle sighed, pushing his hair off his forehead. "At this juncture, yes."

"Fine. Where is she now? When can we expect to start gathering evidence? How much time do we have to work with here?"

"The Grey Cloaks at the border report she and her party crossed back into Neverwinter last night, so we may expect them tomorrow. As far as evidence goes... she won't be allowed to leave Neverwinter again until she's made a squire - it's simply not safe – and that requires a vigil at the very least. We'll push it through as quickly as possible, Sand," Nevalle added, apparently mistaking some of the elf's agitation for impatience. "And we'll stall the trial as long as possible, to give you as much time to work with as we can. That's all Lord Nasher can do." Nevalle pushed himself out of his chair. "I need hardly stress the fact that an innocent woman's life rests on this."

"No, you really needn't," Sand replied, as Nevalle left.

Automatically, he drew the wards closed again, locked the door and let himself fall into a chair. Jaral jumped up into his lap, and decided hooking his claws into the embroidery of Sand's robes would help matters. Apart from an involuntary wince when the sharp claws sank a little too deep, Sand barely noticed. His mind was racing as frantically as it had in those most awful hours of his life, when he'd known he had to flee the Hosttower and not how it could be done. Faced with an absolute imperative, his thoughts focused on the consequences for failure than on any way to succeed. The Arcane Brotherhood, Low Justice, Angharad, Luskan, Ember, murder -

 **Stop**. Calm. That was purely a panic reaction. Entirely natural, given all the circumstances, but it would get him – or her – nowhere. Or, at least, nowhere pleasant. Think. They had at least some time to work with before matters came to a head...

... and it appeared as though the only way he could remain calm and collected about the fact that the Hosttower was attempting to frame his d-

Jaral yowled his protest; Sand's fingers had clenched convulsively in the cat's fur. He muttered an apology as his familiar floated down from his lap and regarded him with that look of total contempt that only cats are born with, and that Sand had never fully succeeded in acquiring.

If he wanted to think about Nevalle's orders with any semblance of coherence or logic, he would have to place as many words around the plain truth of the matter as possible. Now, what could he do before she returned? Blacklake was still under quarantine, which ruled out both the possibilities of accessing the Archives for any useful legal precedent and of visiting the castle to learn more about this Ambassador Torio Claven.

As it turned out, there was nothing useful at all he could do, and very few useless things to occupy his time. He refused to sit and fret, but after shattering a beaker and letting his tincture boil over, followed by treading on Jaral's tail, knocking his head on a bookshelf, and spilling ink on his spellbook, he was forced to the conclusion that there was really nothing else he could do.

It was a very long day.


End file.
